


Sweeping the Clouds Away

by sofia_gigante



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Arthur and Eames forge as Ernie and Bert, Community: inceptiversary, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, Humor, Love, M/M, Marriage, Mourning, Post-Inception, Sesame Street, Sick Child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-27 16:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7625152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sofia_gigante/pseuds/sofia_gigante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“What you are suggesting is not only dangerous, not only illegal—it is fucking amoral. I will not dream-share with a child, even with their father’s blessing.”</i>
</p>
<p>Dom calls together the crew for one last job in the hopes of saving his comatose son. Though Eames agrees to the unorthodox plan, he struggles with the memories of his own personal loss, and only Arthur can keep him anchored enough to get the job done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweeping the Clouds Away

**Author's Note:**

> Castillon02 deserves a fruit basket for her amazing beta work on this crazy train ride of a fic. Thank you! Thanks also to katiewont (kenopsia) for hosting the Inception WIP event that got this fic out of storage and dusted off. 
> 
> Set in the same ’verse as [Under the Skin](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4963876) though very much unrelated. This fic can be read as a stand-alone.
> 
> **IMPORTANT NOTE:** If you are sensitive to hospitalized children or are triggered by talk of past loss of a child/baby, this story may not be for you. However, things will turn out OK in the end of the story. I promise.

Central Park in June was the perfect place for a late evening jog.

Here, Arthur blended in, one of a hundred people on the paved path, each lost in their own rhythm of breath and sweat and whatever music was being piped into their earbuds. Today, Arthur was zoning out on a _This American Life_ podcast, Ira Glass’ voice smoothly drowning out the rasp of his own hard breathing.

He hadn’t been jogging in two weeks—though he had definitely gotten plenty of exercise back in Paris. Sit ups, push-ups, pelvic thrusts, squats…

His face burned a little hotter, heated by memories rather than by exertion. He and Eames hadn’t left their hotel room at all for the first three days of their honeymoon.

“See, since I’m your husband now, I get to tell you what to do, right?” Eames had teased, plucking Arthur’s shirt out of his hands when he’d suggested they go out for lunch. “You’re legally required to obey me.”

“Oh really?” Arthur had snorted, throwing Eames a mock-annoyed look even as he relinquished his shirt. “I don’t remember anything about obey being in the vows.”

“It’s implied, love.” Eames had drawn Arthur into his arms, nipped playfully at his bottom lip, then his jaw.

“But, I’m _your_ husband, too.” Arthur had tried to keep his tone stern, but it was so hard with Eames leaving soft little kisses across his collarbone. “That mean you have to obey me, too.”

Eames had pulled back a little bit, eyes gleaming in the mid-afternoon light filtering in from the crack in the curtain. “I'll make you a deal. Tomorrow, I'll obey every little order your heart desires, if you strip down and get back in bed now.” His grip on Arthur’s waist had tightened, his grin curled wickedly at the corner, and Arthur had known that lunch was definitely going to have to wait…

A sharp cry pulled Arthur out of his memories and back to the jogging path, where a few feet ahead of him a kid was sprawled half on, half under her fallen bike on the ground. It looked like she’d lost control and swerved against the curb that separated the joggers from the bicyclists.

“Hey, you OK?” Arthur ripped his earbuds out and ran to the kid. She looked about ten, her gangly limbs tangled around her purple bike, and Arthur could see the skinned flesh through the hole torn on the knee of her jeans. She looked up, and her face under her helmet was red, her brown eyes overflowing with tears, her bottom lip quivering.

“Hey, hey it’s all right,” Arthur soothed, pulling the bike carefully off of her. “Can you move your legs?”

She whimpered as she pulled her legs towards herself, wincing. “It hurts.”

“How much?” Arthur studied the girl’s leg without touching it, assessing her movements. “Can you wiggle your toes?”

“Why does that matter?” The girl sniffled. “It still hurts.”

With that little comment, he knew she was all right. Kids in serious pain rarely had the capacity to be smart asses—they just howled.

Arthur sat back on his heels. “Because. If you can’t move your toes, it means they broke off.”

The girl snorted, her eyes narrowing in indignation. “Nuh uh! Toes don’t break off!”

“Yeah huh!” Arthur insisted, keeping his face straight. “Happened to my big brother. He fell off his bike when he was twelve, said he couldn’t feel his toes. He didn’t think anything of it until he got home. He took off his shoes, and plop! There on the carpet were two of his toes, still wiggling around like worms.”

The girl gave a laugh that was somewhere between a snort and a snicker, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Andy! There you are! Are you OK?” A man in a worn Mets T-shirt and cargo shorts jogged up to them, and by the concern creasing his face Arthur guessed that this was the girl’s dad. “I told you not to ride too far ahead of me!”

“She’s okay,” Arthur said, standing and lifting the bike up with him. “Though, she hasn’t tried to stand up yet.”

The father nodded, absorbing the information while keeping his eyes glued to his daughter. “You think you can get up?”

“Yes.” Andy sniffled. She tentatively got to her feet, using her father’s offered hand for balance. She took a cautious step, then another. She shot Arthur an accusing look. “My toes are still attached, too.”

“What?” The dad shot Arthur a confused look.

Arthur chuckled weakly as he handed over the bike to him. “Nothing. Just trying to keep her mind off the pain until you showed up. Something I do when my own nieces and nephews get hurt.”

The dad nodded. “Thanks for stopping to help her.” He looked around at the ebb and flow of traffic moving around them as if they weren’t there, and Arthur took his unspoken meaning— _no one else here did._

“No problem,” Arthur said with a shrug, already putting one of his earbuds back in. He smiled down at Andy. “Watch those toes there, champ.”  Then, with a little wave, he rejoined the flow of traffic on the jogger’s path.

He felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with jogging or heated thoughts of Eames. That girl’s little gap-toothed smile lingered in his mind, bringing up memories of the days when he’d lived closer to his family, when he had been an active part of his niece’s and nephew’s lives. Back then, he was just fun, goofy Uncle Art, over for holidays, ball games, and the occasional Sunday dinner. Playing video games with the older kids and _Star Wars_ with the younger ones. It had been nice back then, before grad school, before Project Somnacin, before…before everything.

He still saw his family back in Chicago now and again, but the kids…well, they weren’t _kids_ so much anymore. One in the military, one in college, and two in high school. Even when he visited he barely got a “hey Unc” from the younger ones before they hid in their bedrooms or behind their smartphone screens. It was the natural order of things. Kids grew up, became teenagers, then adults. They loved him, sure, but…but they weren’t _fun_ anymore.

It’s why he liked visiting Dom so much, now that he was back in Los Angeles—Phillipa and James were still young enough to play with. There were always books to read, games to play, Lego cities to build, and tea parties to attend. Dom would try to rescue Arthur when they got too demanding, but really, Arthur didn’t mind spending time with them. Being with kids relaxed him in a way few other things did, let him tap into a lighter, more innocent part of himself. It was a good antidote to the stress of his job. Kept him grounded. Human.

Though, to be fair, maybe that was because at the end of the day, he could turn the kids back on their parents when they needed the important things in life—food, diaper changes, discipline. Being Uncle Art was one thing, being a dad was a completely other one. It was a lot to ask a person…

_Especially Eames._

Yeah. Kids were definitely not going to be a part of life with Eames. Arthur was surprised by the lance of mild disappointment that broke the little bubble of his musings, but he pushed it away. He could live a perfectly happy, fulfilled life without being a parent. Just meant he should schedule a visit to see Dom soon to get his “kid fix.”

Arthur was nearly done with his jog, nearing the E 96th Street park exit to head towards home, when his podcast was interrupted by an incoming call. A jolt of pleasant surprise coursed through him as the phone’s screen identified the caller as Dom. Think of the Devil....

Arthur smiled. Dom was going to flip when he heard what he and Eames had done. Well, and maybe be a little hurt that he hadn’t been invited, but the marriage had happened so fast. When it had finally become legal he and Eames had been caught up in the energy, the joy, the perfect moment to be part of something bigger than the two of them. Dom would understand. Besides, he and Eames were going to have a reception in a few months.

“Hey, long time—”

“James is in the hospital.” Dom cut him off, his voice cracked and strained.

Arthur’s good mood evaporated instantly, the air sucked out of him.

“I need your help. Yours and Eames’,” Dom continued.

Arthur didn’t ask questions. This was Dom. His oldest friend, his brother. He’d hoped that after everything he’d gone through, everything he’d suffered and lost, Dom had finally found a little bit of peace with his children. A new life. A new start.  

No such luck.

Arthur picked up his pace, heading towards home—towards Eames—with single-minded focus.

“We’ll be there tomorrow.”

 

**************

“You’re bloody kidding me.”

Eames looked at Cobb, incredulous. The man had cracked, and who could fucking blame him, after everything he’d gone through. But what he was suggesting was madness.

“No. No way.” Eames was already shaking his head, pushing himself out of the dingy hospital chair. “I can’t. I won’t.” He looked over at Arthur, who sat hunched over, his hands folded at his lips. “Tell him, love. Tell him it’s a fucking horrible idea.”

Arthur remained silent, still. Only his dark eyes flickered—moving between Eames, Cobb, and the small figure on the hospital bed behind Cobb.

“Believe me, I wouldn’t be asking if I thought…” Cobb’s words choked off, and he covered his mouth. Eames turned away, giving the man the time he needed to compose himself.

“The doctors won’t do anything more for James,” Cobb said when he could finally speak again. “They admit that the fall shouldn’t be causing this…this unconsciousness for so long. They don’t know what else to do except wait.”

“So, we wait,” Eames said gently. “Look, I understand you want to help—”

“You don’t understand shit!” Cobb snapped. “When the fuck have you ever cared for anyone besides yourself, Eames?”

Eames balked, hot anger radiating through him. He opened his mouth to argue, but Arthur’s hand on his leg kept his words in check. Instead, Eames forced himself to remain calm and meet Cobb’s red-eyed gaze.

“What you are suggesting is not only dangerous, not only illegal—it is fucking amoral. I will not dream-share with a child, even with their father’s blessing.”

“I’m not giving you my blessing. I’m begging. I’ll give you anything.” Cobb turned his head sharply, as if the words physically pained him to speak. “You’re the only ones I can trust with this. Ariadne’s flying in from France on Friday—”

“Oh, so you’ve dragged her into this—”

“And Yusuf’s already on a plane.”

“Yusuf? He agreed to—of course he agreed. That man lives for experimenting—”

“He did it because he’s my friend,” Cobb said quietly. “I thought you were, too.”

Eames blinked in surprise. Now that was rich. “Friends” didn’t just call each other when they needed something. “Friends” didn’t lie to each other. “Friends” actually spent time together. All Eames knew about Cobb personally could fit on a Post-It note, and it was Eames’ _job_ to know people. They certainly were not “friends.”

“That’s why we’re here, Dom,” Arthur finally spoke, his voice quiet and strained.

There was the truth of it: Eames was not Cobb’s friend—but Arthur was. And where Arthur went, so did Eames.

That was the kick about being married, now, wasn’t it?

“Then you’ll do this for me?” Cobb asked. Eames noticed that Cobb had shifted his full attention to Arthur.

“I’m not a forger,” Arthur said. Eames noted grimly that it wasn’t a refusal.

“But you know how to do it well enough for this,” Cobb insisted. “Look. I know…I know it sounds like a crazy idea, but it’s worked before. There’ve been cases, experimental studies, that prove that using fictional environments to guide the dreamer can be nearly as successful as mimicking reality. The brain doesn’t question it, as long as the material is visually based and the subject is intimately familiar with it.”

“I remember reading the paper about the Tolkien case,” Arthur murmured.

“And the Wonderland setting that was used successfully in that Stanford case study.” Cobb’s gestures became wilder, interpreting Arthur’s contribution as consent. “James is obsessed with _Sesame Street_. He watches it twice a day. His unconscious mind will accept the setting easily, and the show’s educational format allows us to steer him gently towards wakefulness.”

“And now you’re a bloody child psychologist?” Eames snapped, unable to keep quiet any longer. “You have no idea what damage we could do in there!”

“I know that if we sit here and do nothing, my son will die!” Cobb growled.

“You don’t know that.” Arthur spoke carefully. “The doctors said—”

“I know what the doctors said!” Cobb’s eyes closed in frustration. “I can’t take that risk, not when I know there’s a way for me to bring him back for sure.”

Eames met Arthur’s eye sideways, neither of them saying what they were both thinking— _there’s no way to know if this will bring James back, either._

“If it was either one of you in that bed, I know for damn sure the other one of you would already be breaking out the PASIV if there was a chance it would help.” Cobb’s eyes opened again, and for a moment they were clear, lucid.  “I’ve already lost Mal. I can’t lose James, too,” Cobb whispered. He looked down at the boy in the bed. James looked tiny, surrounded by numerous machines that beeped and whirred as they measured his life by heartbeats, breaths, and drops of fluid.

Eames’ stomach lurched. This was no way for a boy to be. He should be running, playing, getting into mischief. Not silently fighting to find his way back to the waking world, alone.

Fucking hell.

“Fine.” Eames said it so quietly he wasn’t sure he’d said it. “I’m in.”

“I’m in, too,” Arthur said a moment later. Only then, Eames realized that Arthur had already made his decision—but he’d waited for Eames make the choice for himself first. Something like this couldn’t be forced.

Cobb nodded, grateful. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his house keys. “You’ll find what you need in the living room. The guest room is on the second floor.”

Arthur stood and took the keys. “You sure you don’t want us to stay?”

Cobb shook his head. “I want you to get to work. Please.”

 

**************

Eames barely spoke two words on the drive from the hospital. Arthur didn’t push him, instead focusing on navigating the rental car through the labyrinth of L.A. freeways to Dom’s new house in Santa Monica. He was better at driving in the U.S. anyway.

It was a gorgeous house—Spanish style with a clay tiled roof, white stucco exterior, and bright bugambilia flowers planted under the windows. Inside, the hardwood floors, beamed ceilings, and wrought-iron spiral staircase should’ve made the place feel rustically elegant. All it felt was empty. Discarded toys still littered the hallway, and a little further down, a small village of Barbie dolls had been abandoned under the dining room table. Phillipa had been staying with her grandparents since James had entered the hospital, and apparently she hadn’t had a chance to clean up before she left. Arthur turned away, his heart in his throat.

Arthur came back from his exploration to find Eames back in the entryway, looking up the tall spiral staircase. His gaze moved slowly down to the hardwood floor, and he winced. Arthur knew what he was imagining. He was, too. He came up quietly behind Eames and touched his shoulder to pull him from the trance.

“Living room’s this way,” he said quietly.

Eames nodded and followed Arthur. “Poor little tyke.”

“That’s why we’re doing this,” Arthur said. He wished he sounded more confident.

“So. We’re actually going through with it?” Eames asked carefully.

“I…” Arthur swallowed hard. He knew what Eames wanted him to say—that he’d changed his mind. Come to his senses. Agreed with Eames that dream-sharing with a child was wrong on so many levels. Instead, he only nodded slowly.

“I have to trust Cobb,” Arthur said slowly.

“What about trusting…” Eames looked away, and Arthur braced himself for what he knew was next: _trusting me?_

“What about trusting your gut?” Eames said instead.

“My gut says we can do this,” Arthur answered, feeling a bit more sure when he realized he wasn’t lying. “We’re not extracting, we’re not incepting, we’re just…guiding.”

“We don’t even know how a kid’s mind works. We’re not even par—” Eames stopped, rubbed a hand over his mouth. Arthur watched closely, not daring move. Eames swallowed hard, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter. “We don’t ever spend time with children.”

_I used to,_ Arthur thought, but kept it to himself. This…this was going to be hard on Eames on so many different levels, and Arthur hated that he’d been put in this position. If it had been anyone else, he would’ve refused, but this was _Dom_. His oldest friend, who he owed his life to. He had to help him.

“If you can’t do this, I understand,” Arthur said quietly. “I’ll explain to Dom that you—”

“No. No, I’m not letting you do this alone.” Eames shook his head. He met Arthur’s eyes with a level gaze, then held up his left hand to show the golden band on his ring finger. “That’s what these are all about, aren’t they?”

Arthur’s heart did a little flip, and he ran his thumb over the smooth surface of his matching band. He stepped close enough to Eames to place his hands on Eames’ hips, and looked up at him with sincere gratitude.

“Stay honest with me, okay? If this gets too hard…”

Eames silenced Arthur with a kiss, though the stiffness of his lips told Arthur it was more to silence him than to encourage him. Arthur let him. _This_ was something they never talked about, ever. It was buried so deep inside of Eames that not even a hint of it had appeared in any of their dream-shares. Had Eames not told him—only a few months ago—Arthur would never have guessed at the secret sorrow he had been carrying for almost ten years.

Eames pulled away from Arthur with a sigh. He headed for the media center in the corner of the living room. “All right then. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it fucking right.” He held up a stack of brightly colored DVDs. “Let’s begin with research.”

 

**************

The work wasn’t as arduous as Eames had feared. For a children’s show, _Sesame Street_ was surprisingly engaging. The songs weren’t half bad, either, though some of the characters could be downright obnoxious. That little red bastard Elmo had to fucking go.

Arthur, on the other hand, seemed quietly enraptured. He would gasp in occasional delight at a new segment, murmuring, “I remember this,” or scowl at changes that Eames had no perception of.  Arthur knew most of the characters, the settings, and the songs. Eames let him guide him through this strange landscape, seeing as he had been the one to grow up with it. It had never really caught on in the UK when he’d been a child, and Eames could see why. It was so bright, so loud, so quick, so utterly _American_.

There was something darling, though, about watching Arthur’s enthusiasm over this program, and as the night wore on and their notepads filled with character profiles and potential plotlines, Eames couldn’t help but bait Arthur just a little.

“So, you’re telling me these human actors have been on the show since you were a kid?” Eames asked, pointing at a bald, elderly black gentleman who was trying to teach a pink fairy puppet how to ride a tricycle.

“Some of them. Gordon’s been on the show since it started in the ’60s. Though, he changed actors a couple of times in the ’70s. This Gordon’s been with the show as long as I remember.” Arthur was rambling, sleepy, his East Coast-tuned bio-rhythm telling him it was three hours later than it actually was here in Los Angeles.

“How does this show even make sense, then? A street where the humans age naturally, but these puppets—”

“Muppets,” Arthur corrected.

“Where these _puppets_ remain perpetual children. They don’t ever grow up, go away school, get jobs, have little fuzzy spawn of their own. Where’s Elmo’s Midlife Crisis? Ernie and Bert File for Divorce?”

“Hey, those two would never divorce!” Arthur mock-snapped. “Theirs is a love for the ages.”

“Then that Ernie has a right fucked way of showing it,” Eames snorted. “I swear, you pull half the shit that little fucker pulls, and any judge would grant me a speedy divorce. ‘Your honor, my husband abused me with sleep deprivation by eating crackers in my bed, playing the trumpet, and allowing me to be abducted and gang-banged by sheep.’”

“You really think I’m the Ernie in this relationship?” Arthur said dryly, not even looking at Eames.

Eames smiled slyly. “Oh. So you admit that playing the tightly-wound, obsessive-compulsive neat freak is just typecasting for you then, love?”

Arthur scowled. “You really are going to be a natural Ernie, Eames.” Even under his glare, Eames caught the gleam of love in his eyes, and Eames made a kissy noise that made Arthur roll his eyes before he turned his attention back to the screen.

Definitely the Bert.

Yusuf arrived by taxi around 11 p.m., exhausted from his flight but wired by the 10-hour time difference between California and Kenya. He was uncharacteristically quiet, staring bleary-eyed at the television and nursing a cup of tea on one side of Eames, while Arthur dozed off on the other, finally surrendering to sleep. It was surprisingly cozy.

“So, you’re really going to…” Yusuf waved his hand at the screen, where Ernie and Bert were bickering over a pair of hats. “Be them?”

“That’s the plan.” Eames sighed. Given any other circumstances, he might’ve actually found the job enjoyable, had a bit of fun with the role. But these were decidedly not normal circumstances, and as the night wore on and his defense weakened with fatigue, he could feel…feel _things_ stirring up from the depths of his being. Things that he’d decided years ago would _not_ be looked at again. So he did what he always did: focused on the here and now.

“Huh,” Yusuf chuckled weakly. “I’m half tempted to join you in the field just to see what it would look like to see you like that. You’ll look smashing in orange.”

“Only if you forge up like that blue bloke there.” Eames pointed at a blue puppet with a bulbous head and a hinged mouth. “No tourists on this job.”

They laughed lightly together at their private joke, the same memory of Saito running through their minds. See, now _this_ was friendship. A pang went through Eames. He’d missed Yusuf. Eames hadn’t seen him since he’d left Mombasa for good last year—when he’d committed to buying a place with Arthur in New York. He’d missed the rambling conversations in Yusuf’s workshop, the lazy afternoons hunched over a Shisima board at their favorite café, Jahazi, nursing cups of strong, sweet coffee. Yusuf was the only one in Mombasa he could be close to being himself with—or at least didn’t have to hide as much as he usually did. Suddenly, Eames was very glad to have Yusuf here, and he clapped his hand briefly on Yusuf’s knee.

Yusuf studied Eames’ hand, then gave a little huff of surprise as his gaze darted to Arthur’s. His shoulder nudged Eames’.

“When?”

“Almost three weeks ago.”

“Where?”

“Courthouse in Manhattan.”

Yusuf gave Eames a sly smile. “You immigrants. The things you’ll do for a green card.”

Eames bumped his shoulder into Yusuf’s, careful not to wake Arthur, but still hard enough to make Yusuf chuckle.

“Congratulations,” Yusuf said sincerely.

“Thanks.”

Yusuf looked back at the television, sobering. “Not the best way to start your new life together, is this?”

“No. It’s not. But that’s life for you.” He stole a glance at his sleeping husband. “Always reminding you of what really matters, how fragile it can all be.”

 

**************

Ariadne arrived two days later. She went to the hospital first, and Arthur was pleasantly surprised that she managed to talk Dom into coming back to the house with her. They’d barely seen him, communicating mostly by phone from James’ bedside. Dom was badly in need of a shower, a sleep in a bed, and the long hug Arthur had seen Ariadne give him in the front seat of his car. It was good to know he was letting someone take care of him, at least a little.

It was even better seeing Ariadne again.

“You’ve cut your hair,” Arthur said, pointing to her new pixie cut. “It’s cute.”

“Thanks. Easier to take care of with the new job and everything.” She ran her fingers absently through her hair and made a face. “God, I need a shower.”

“Guest room’s this way.” Arthur picked up her bag and began leading her up the stairs. “There’s only one, so Eames and I will move into the living room with Yusuf.”

“I don’t want to kick you guys out. I can sleep on the couch.”

“It’s okay. We’ve been working late nights there anyway.” Arthur shrugged.

When they reached the top of the staircase, Ariadne couldn’t help but look down. She shuddered.

“Poor James,” she whispered.

“I’m glad you came,” Arthur said quietly.

“Of course,” she murmured, running a hand down Arthur’s arm. “When Cobb told me you and Eames were in—”

“Wait, when did he tell you?” Arthur gave her a sidelong glance as he led her down the hall.

“When he first called me to tell me what happened.” She sounded surprised. Realization crinkled her brow. “Wait, had you not…”

Arthur sighed deeply. “Does it matter? We’re all here now.”

Ariadne let out her own long breath. “Fucking Dom.”

Arthur couldn’t help his smile. “Now you’re getting to know him.” He placed her bag on the guest room floor and nodded to the adjacent bathroom. “Everything you need should be in there. We’ll be in the living room once you’re ready to get to work.”

“Here, take this with you.” She unzipped her messenger bag and pulled out a large sketchbook. “I did some research of my own at home, and I already have some level designs based on the show’s current sets. You guys can take a look while I’m showering, and I’ll answer questions as soon as I’m down.”

Arthur flipped through the first few pages, and he felt an odd shiver go up his spine to see just how perfectly she’d recreated Sesame Street as three-dimensional dream level designs.

“Is this as weird for you as it is for me?” he asked quietly.

“If this is very weird for you, then yes,” she sighed. “I never in a million years would’ve thought that we’d ever be called on to do something like this. Maybe _Star Trek_ , but…”

Arthur shut the book and tucked it under his arm. “Yeah, well, that’s a four-year-old’s mind for you.”

Ariadne fixed Arthur with a steady, piercing gaze.

“Tell me straight, Arthur—can we do this without hurting James? I want to trust Dom knows what’s best for his son, but…”

“But you don’t trust him,” Arthur finished simply.

No. I don’t. But I trust you.”

Arthur blinked rapidly in surprise. He and Ariadne had definitely forged a bond in the two years they’d worked on and off together, but he didn’t want to be responsible for her going against her better judgement.

“Which is probably why Dom told me you were in before he’d even talked to you,” Ariadne sighed. She rubbed her face. “God, this is such a bad idea.”

“I think we can do this,” Arthur said quietly. “Yusuf is the best chemist in the business, and he’s already done some work with children in Mombasa.”

Ariadne’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?”

Arthur held out a placating hand. “It’s his story to tell, not mine. The important thing is that he had their and their family’s consent, and the kids were all fine afterwards. I think with his chemical knowledge, your expertise in level design, and Eames’ forging talents, we can make this work without harming James further, if nothing else. Whether we can actually do what Dom wants us to…”

Ariadne nodded slowly, absorbing Arthur’s words.  “OK. Let’s do this. But first…shower.” She nodded her head towards the bathroom.

Arthur was already out the door before she called out, “And if you think you’re off the hook for not inviting me to your wedding, you’re fucking mistaken, my friend. You and Eames are so in trouble when this is all over.”

He smiled to himself and kept walking, running his thumb over the gold band on his left ring finger.

He found everyone else downstairs—Yusuf in the kitchen huddled over his bottles and beakers, and Eames sprawled out on the couch, hooked to the PASIV on the coffee table, already unconscious. Cobb was there as well, sitting on the loveseat and rolling up his sleeve. Arthur frowned.

“What are you doing?” Arthur asked, trying to keep his tone gentle.

“I want to see the progress Eames is making,” Cobb said. There was a frantic edge to his voice—the same he used to get when he was talking about finding a way back home, back in the “bad days.” It made Arthur’s stomach knot. He’d truly thought he’d never hear that tone in Dom’s voice again.

Arthur put a hand on Cobb’s shoulder. “He’s—we’re making good progress. I promise you. Take a shower first. Or a nap, and then we’ll show you what we have.”

“I’m fine,” Cobb snapped. He leaned forward, sliding out from under Arthur’s hand as he reached for one the needle-tipped tubes coiled in the PASIV. “I’ll rest after I see. I promise.”

Arthur sighed and grabbed another tube for himself. “Yusuf,” he called out to the kitchen. “We’re all going under. Back in two minutes.”

Yusuf made a noncommittal sound from the kitchen, and Arthur settled himself on the floor. Eames was not going to be happy about this surprise inspection from Dom, but if Arthur was with him, then perhaps he could help mitigate the damage. He hated when circumstances put him right in the middle between Eames and Dom. Made him feel like Chris or Alan, constantly mediating the little quarrels that Elmo and Zoe would get into…

God. He’d seen far, far too much _Sesame Street_ in too short a span of time.

Eames hadn’t bothered with trying to create the television program’s set—that was Ariadne’s job. Instead, he was working in what he called “backstage”—a bright, blank-walled room with a large, three-way mirror in the center. It was the easiest location for Eames to hold while focusing on building a challenging forge. He stood before the mirror, focused on his reflection, which showed not Eames’ tall, broad shape, but the squat, colorful Ernie puppet. Eames was gesturing with one hand, trying to get the motions just right to look like a puppet on a wire, while saying to himself, “Hey Bert! Wanna squeeze my rubber duckie, Bert?”

“You’re not going to make lewd innuendos at my son!” Dom’s voice snapped through the room, killing the grin that Arthur was about to crack.

Eames’ spine stiffened, and the image in the mirror immediately collapsed back into a reflection of himself. His brows were knitted together angrily, his lips pursed tightly. He looked over one shoulder, his grey eyes snapping between Arthur and Dom.

“Surprise inspection from the boss, eh?” Eames said coolly, and Arthur sent him a silent thanks for keeping the brunt of his irritation in check. “You should’ve stopped in earlier. I had the whole ‘Rubber Duckie’ song perfected as a rap—”

“This isn’t a fucking joke, Eames!” Dom snarled.

“Hey. Calm down, Dom.” Arthur put a hand on Dom’s arm, more firmly than he had before. He knew that Dom was beyond stressed, beyond tired, but it was no reason to take it out on Eames for being…well, being Eames.

“Do I look like I’m fucking joking?” Eames’ voice went deadly soft, and Arthur inwardly groaned. Fuck. Last time Eames had used that tone, someone had left with a broken jaw. Instead of lashing out, though, Eames closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, and a shudder ran through him. Within seconds, Ernie stood in his place, glaring up at Dom with his flat, plastic eyes.

“You know I take my work extremely fucking seriously,” Eames continued, but in Ernie’s voice and cadence. It was very disconcerting to hear Ernie swear. “And _Sesame Street_ uses music often and effectively to help the viewers retain information. So, yes, Cobb, I am learning how to improvise in this form, because God fucking knows what song-and-dance bullshit I’m going to have to do to make this insane plan of yours work!”

Cobb was struck speechless, his face ashen and bloodless as Ernie-Eames berated him in the most cheerful of tones. “I…um…wow…”

“I think what Dom’s trying to say, Eames, is that it’s a damn good forge,” Arthur said quietly, trying to smooth over the tension.

“Of course it’s a good forge. I’ve been working on it for 48 bloody hours.” Then, most disconcerting of all, Ernie gave one of his trademark hissing laughs, and Arthur felt a shiver go down his spine. The muppet then turned his glassy gaze on Arthur.  “You, on the other hand, need to log in some more practice time building that ol’ Banana-head Bert, so, Cobb, if you’ll be a love, could you kindly clock out so Arthur and I can get to work?”

Well. At least he didn’t tell Cobb directly to fuck off. Arthur turned to Dom, and leaned in. “Dom, really. Go get a shower, get some rest. We’ll wake you up in three hours for dinner, and I promise we will lay the entire plan out for you. We’ll even all go under together to show you how everything is coming together. But I need you focused. James needs you focused.”

Dom finally nodded. “All right.” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked exhausted. “I…I could use some sleep. Real sleep.”

Arthur patted Dom’s shoulder, relief flooding through him. He imagined the heft of his silenced Glock in his hand, solid and deadly, and placed it right at Dom’s temple. He wrapped his finger around the trigger and squeezed, and Dom’s body collapsed at his feet, then disappeared. Arthur sighed.

“Now, I’m being a right bloody prick,” Dom’s voice groaned from behind Arthur.

He whirled around, confused to find Dom still standing behind him. He was so frazzled from the confrontation that it took him a full three seconds to realize that it was Eames forging as Dom—the same rumpled outfit, the same raspy stubble, the same greasy hair. Arthur would have been more impressed at Eames’ quick skills if he wasn’t so irritated.

“Not. Helping,” Arthur snapped, pointing a finger at Eames.

Eames shrugged, looked away from Arthur. In the span of a blink, he’d shifted back into himself. “That’s exactly what I’m doing, love. Helping. Not my fault Dom’s too wrapped up in himself to see it.”

Arthur opened his mouth to argue, and then shut it again. He wouldn’t defend Dom, or his grief, or his actions. He _was_ being a right bloody prick to Eames…but Eames just couldn’t help but poke and prod at Dom, try to get a rise out of him…

_Like Eames does whenever he’s hiding something._

Arthur took a deep, calming breath. “All right. We have a bit more time in here before the timer goes off. Let me give forging Bert another go.”

Eames nodded, though Arthur could still see a hint of residual frustration creasing his brow. So Arthur stepped closer to Eames, and pressed a soft, reassuring kiss to Eames’ lips.

“So,” Arthur said, arching one of his eyebrows, “What was that about a rubber duckie you had for me to squeeze?”

 

**************

“All right, let’s go over this one more time,” Arthur said, turning to the large, white paper tacked to the dining room wall. “The doctor’s latest reports say that there’s plenty of brain activity, so we’re hopeful that James has already been dreaming, and his subconscious will accept the dream-share easily.”

Eames bit back a sigh and leaned back in his chair. They’d been at the table for hours, going over sketches, schedules, and _Sesame Street_ footage. They had this down as well as they could, but Eames knew how much Arthur loved to hear the sound of his own planning, so he indulged him.

Eames plucked the last cold eggroll from the white paper carton in front of him, munching on it as he surreptitiously looked around the table. It was strange, this little Fischer Job reunion, and Eames wouldn’t have been surprised if Saito himself had shown up at Cobb’s door. Well, truthfully, he would’ve been floored. But really—Eames hadn’t expected to ever see Cobb at a meeting like this again, and Yusuf hadn’t left the safety of his chemist’s cave since he’d flown back from L.A. after the inception. After he’d gone to Disneyland first, of course.

“Eames?”

“Huh?” Eames’ attention snapped back to Arthur, who looked decidedly annoyed. Eames gave him a slow smile in response. Married or not, some things never changed. “Sorry, mind repeating the question, darling?”

“I asked if you’d explain your scenario to us.”

“You mean _our_ scenario.” Eames raised a playful eyebrow. “Don’t forget, you have a starring role in this little production.”

Arthur grimaced, making a face not unlike the forged projection he’d finally managed to perfect this afternoon.

“Right, it’s nothing too complicated. Once James has placed himself on set—which he will rather quickly—Arthur and I present ourselves in character, engage him in some of the usual songs and games, and tell James that it’s time to go home because the show is over.” Eames nodded at Cobb down the table. “Hopefully, James will be receptive to this, and will play along. If not, we’ll proceed to jog his memory with the usual—‘your dad and sister love you, miss you, want you to come home,’ see if that encourages him.”

“Of course that’ll encourage him,” Cobb said quietly. “It’s the truth.”

Eames’ gaze shot over to Arthur, who shook his head slightly. They’d already discussed this between themselves—there could be reasons James didn’t want to come back. Perhaps he’d been having trouble adjusting to all the rapid changes—new home, new preschool, new friends. Maybe he was still getting used to life with just Dad after years of living with grandma. Or maybe he didn’t realize he was dreaming, living a full and happy life with _everyone_ he loved together. Cobb wasn’t the only one who had lost Mal. This might be a trickier sell than Cobb thought.

Which brought them to…

“At that point, I come in, and lead James through the door Ariadne designed.” Cobb nodded at Ariadne, whose lips twitched into the hint of a nervous smile before her gaze darted down to her notepad. So, Arthur had spoken to her as well. Eames didn’t need to look at Yusuf to feel him tensing beside Eames, thinking of their own recent conversation. Eames sat forward slowly, bracing himself. “Credit roll, show ends, and James is home safe with me again,” Cobb finished.

“Dom, um.” Arthur looked at Eames for encouragement, and he nodded, lending Arthur silent strength. “There’s been a change to the plan.”

Cobb’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “Since when?”

“Since before dinner.” _Since after you almost bit Eames’ head off “backstage.”_ Arthur swallowed hard. “We’ve all discussed it, and we…we feel it’s best you don’t join us on this mission.”

Silence stretched out across the table, thick and uncomfortable, as Cobb studied each of his companions in turn.  No one answered, no one even met his gaze. Except for Eames.

“James is my son,” Cobb finally said, his voice quivering with barely checked anger.

“Which is exactly why we feel it’s best you sit this one out,” Arthur said gently. “Your emotions are running high—”

“I can handle it!” Cobb snapped.

“And high emotional states can have unpredictable results in dream-share.” Arthur’s voice was rising to match Cobb’s.

“Don’t quote my own lessons back at me,” Cobb said. “Look, I know what you’re worried about, and it’s not going to happen again. I…I took care of _her_.” Cobb’s attention turned back to Ariadne. “Tell them, Ariadne. She’s gone.”

Ariadne finally looked up from her notepad, her expression somewhere between distress and sympathy. “I know you… _we_ …think you’ve eliminated the projection of Mal…but…” Ariadne spread her hands helplessly. “With James’ mind at stake…”

Cobb’s open palms slapped down on the table. “None of you trust me.”

The silence that followed was almost unbearable.

“No. We don’t,” Eames said quietly. He met Cobb’s gaze levelly. “I’m sorry.”

“Fuck your sorry.” Cobb stood up quickly, his chair scraping painfully across the hardwood floor. “And fuck of all you.” He stormed out of the dining room, and disappeared down the darkened hallway. The four companions looked at each other, expressions ranging from helpless to exasperated.

Arthur put his pen down and sighed. “I’ll go talk to him.”

“No. I will.” Eames stood, ignoring the surprised looks he got.

“No offense, but I think you’re the last one Cobb wants to talk to,” Yusuf said quietly.

“Which is exactly why I should be the one to talk to him.” Eames took a sip from his cold tea and stole a look at Arthur. He looked concerned. Eames gave him a reassuring smile that he didn’t really feel.

“Let’s take a break,” Arthur said as Eames left the room. He could hear the clink of dishes and rustle of paper as they cleared the table, and Eames grinned a little to himself. Arthur was always accusing him of not cleaning up after himself. Which was funny. Tonight, Eames had a bigger mess to clean up after.

He found Cobb right where he expected to find him, in James’ room. He was sitting on the little, unmade bed, James’ stuffed rabbit clutched in his hands. His head snapped up as Eames entered, and he didn’t miss the flicker of disappointment that preceded his look of disgust. Not who he’d been hoping for, then.

“Unless you’re here to apologize, I suggest you get out,” Cobb said, but his voice had lost the sharpness it’d had at the table. Now he just sounded tired. So very tired.

Eames knew that tone all too well.

“I’m not the one should be apologizing, Cobb,” Eames said carefully.

“What? I should be apologizing for this—this mutiny?” Cobb scoffed. “I’m surprised Arthur went along with your—”

“It was Arthur’s idea.”

Cobb’s brow furrowed in confusion before he looked away. “Oh.”

“Listen, Cobb. Those people down there have dropped everything to come from all over the world to help you. They deserve your respect and gratitude, not your anger.”

“What about you?” Cobb looked up at Eames, his expression vaguely accusatory. “You’re here just because Arthur dragged you into this, aren’t you?”

It was true, to some extent. Without Arthur, Eames would never have agreed to this. He looked at Cobb’s face—the dark circles under his eyes, the lines around his mouth, the days-old stubble that was threatening to become a beard. Eames recognized the haggardness, the exhaustion, the uncertainty, all too fucking well.

He’d seen it in the mirror.

Eames’ heart rate sped up, his stomach knotted, the things he’d been pushing down finally creeping up, testing the light like seedlings. They wouldn’t push; they’d been trained too well. But they were there, hot and uncoiling from the back of his mind, his heart, urging the truth from him.  

“I’m here because I’m the only one of us who has any hint of an idea of what you’re going through,” Eames said quietly.

Cobb snorted derisively. “No, Eames, I doubt someone like you could ever—”

“Know what it’s like to lose a son?” Eames’ mouth was dry as cotton. He felt lightheaded suddenly, his skin prickling numb. “I absolutely do.”

Cobb stared at him, his mouth slightly agape. “Eames, if you’re…”

“Lying to you?” Eames’ anger rose, fueled by the myriad other emotions battling their way from the vault he’d kept them locked in for years—grief, helplessness, fury. “Why the fuck would I lie about something like that, you self-centered sod?”

Cobb went pale. “I don’t know…I…” He looked down, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry.”

Eames’ hands felt too heavy, twitchy, and he jammed them into his pockets. He felt for his poker chip in one, his pocket watch in the other, letting the touch of the familiar surfaces soothe his nerves. He didn’t talk about this. Ever. Even Arthur, with whom he shared everything, only knew the barest facts about this facet of Eames. And now he was sharing this with Cobb, who wasn’t even really a friend.

“What happened?” Cobb finally asked, as Eames knew he would.

“Born premature. Complications,” was all Eames could manage. He refused to see the images that threatened to come to the fore of his memory, refused to relive the memories. He’d gotten so good at pushing it all back. Even standing here in the middle of a small boy’s room, all he saw was James’ stuff, James’ life, not Ronan’s. Never Ronan’s.

“God, I…” Cobb’s eyes were shining, and he bit his lower lip hard. “I’m so sorry.”

Eames nodded, accepting the sincerity in Cobb’s voice as he pushed back against his memories. It was harder than he thought. So again, he focused on the here and now, the man in front of him, his grief, his exhaustion, his fear. Eames had lived through all that in a past life—here and now, he had a chance to help.

“We’re not excluding you from the dream because we’re afraid of your projection of Mal, Cobb,” Eames said, “we’re afraid of what might happen when you see James again. Your desperation to have him back—which I completely understand—may manifest in harmful ways, frighten him further, and drive him deeper inside himself.”

Cobb thought for a long, long moment. Finally, he asked, “Do you really believe you and Arthur alone can coax him back?”

“I do.”

Cobb let out a heavy sigh. “All right.”

“Thank you.” Eames turned to leave. “I’ll tell the others.”

“I’m trusting you, Eames.” Cobb’s voice was thin, brittle.

“We’ll do everything we can, Dominic. I promise,” Eames said, and left Cobb alone to his thoughts.

At the base of the stairs, Eames stopped and took some deep, hard breaths. God, he wished he could have a cigarette right now, but two years clean—

“Hey. Everything OK?” Arthur materialized from the hallway, a dishcloth in his hands.

“Yeah, yeah.” Eames waved a hand. “Cobb’s on board with the new plan.”

“That’s good, but not what I meant.” Arthur approached, and hung the dishcloth on the banister. “Are _you_ OK?”

“Me? Fine.” Eames looked down at his feet, up the stairs, at the painting on the wall, the collection of matchbox cars in the corner, just like the ones he’d planned on buying Ronan one day—

He shook his head, hard, and before Arthur could question him, he plastered on a smile. He planted a kiss on Arthur’s cheek as he strode back towards the brightly-lit kitchen. “Now, let’s get back to work, shall we, love?”

 

**************

It wasn’t hard to get all of them in to James’ private room at once, despite the hospital’s limited guest policy. All it took was some disguises—a pair of scrubs and stethoscope for Yusuf and a lab-coat for Ariadne—and a couple of forged identification badges for them to move unimpeded through the ward. Arthur and Eames were simply visitors once again, and the nurses at the station barely gave them—or the large, brightly colored gift-bag Arthur was carrying—a second look. It wasn’t unusual to bring patients gifts, even unconscious patients.

Dom was already waiting in the room, having left the house shortly after dawn. He looked up from his post beside James’ bed, and though he looked as worn and worried as ever, there was a glint of purpose in his eyes—a hint of hope.

Arthur took up his position in the chair on the other side of James’ bed, tucking the bag at his side. He watched silently as Eames pulled up a chair beside Dom and nodded at him in greeting. Dom held his gaze longer than usual, returning the nod. Then, to Arthur’s surprise, he patted Eames’ knee once before folding his hands in his lap and returning his attention to his son.

Was Arthur imaging it, or was that an actual genuine moment of camaraderie he’d just witnessed? He said nothing, even pretended he hadn’t noticed, but his mind was buzzing.

Dom and Eames had been at odds for years. Sure, put them on a job together and they worked like cogs in a machine, but without that purpose lubricating the gears, they ground against each other until neither could be in the other’s presence. When he’d questioned them about it—separately, of course—he always got vague answers. There was nothing specific, no job gone wrong, no torrid love affair, nothing like that. They just…didn’t like each other—and Arthur knew why. They were just too damn alike in some ways. Focused, yet creative; resilient, yet sensitive; persistent, yet adaptable.

And not to mention the fact that both had been fathers, even for a short time.

God, what Arthur wouldn’t have given to be a fly in James’ room last night. Had Eames told Dom things he hadn’t been able to share with Arthur before? It hadn’t even been until last year that Eames had finally told Arthur about Ronan, in one of those slow, drunken 3 a.m. conversations where they were speaking more to the darkness than to each other. It had come out in pieces, just the barest details, and all Arthur knew for sure was that the child had died of a heart condition shortly after he had been born. The grief had torn apart the already fragile relationship Eames had had with the mother—and the loss had been the catalyst that had launched Eames into the shadowy life Arthur had found him in ten years later. He hadn’t cried as he spoke, though to this day Arthur shivered to remember his voice, so raw and fragile…just as Dom’s had been when he’d called Arthur to summon them here to the hospital.

Yusuf entered the room, a bag of IV fluids in his hand. He nodded at all of them casually, as a nurse would to visitors, and began changing out the bag. Ariadne entered a few moments later, clipboard in hand. She shut the door behind her and drew the curtain around James’ bed.

Arthur sprang into action, pulling the PASIV from the gift bag. Dom’s hands were already opening the device as Arthur placed it on the bed besides James, powering up the machine. Arthur let him; he understood how badly Dom needed to feel useful right now. Once he, Eames, and Ariadne were under, there would be nothing Dom could do but wait and keep watch.

Yusuf prepped Ariadne for the dream-share as Arthur pulled out the tubing and slid the needle into his own wrist. Timing was crucial, as always. According to the schedules they’d studied, they only had a window of one minute of assured privacy, which would buy them just one hour in dream-time with this compound. It was all they needed—each episode of _Sesame Street_ was less than 60 minutes long. If they couldn’t guide James back by the time the show came to its natural resolution…

“You’re absolutely sure the doses are in the right slots,” Dom asked Yusuf as he pulled out a coil of tubing. That was the most critical part of this entire operation—the separate dose of compound for James. A regular-adult size dose of standard Somnacin—never mind Yusuf’s special concoctions—could do serious damage to a child’s system, and that was even before they factored in the medications James was already on.

“Positive,” Yusuf said firmly, no hesitation. “I triple-checked it, and marked it with an X.” He pointed to the canister that led to the tubing Dom held, showing the thick sharpie mark on it. Dom nodded, making doubly sure that the tube he held led to that canister before even picking up James’ limp little hand. He hesitated.

Arthur held his breath. Dom knew how risky this could be, and now that they had removed his ulterior motive of seeing his son again in dream share, the risks were suddenly becoming more apparent.

“We don’t have to do this,” Arthur said quietly.

“Yes, we do.” He didn’t even look up at Arthur, focusing instead on sliding the needle into James’ wrist. He winced as it pierced the smooth flesh, as if he could feel the pinprick on his own skin. After he smoothed the tape into place, his hand remained, engulfing James’ small hand in his own.

“Hold on, tiger,” Dom murmured to James. “They’re coming to bring you home.”

“Remember your places on set—Arthur, next to the stoop of the 123 Building in front of Oscar’s trash can. Eames, inside Hooper’s Store. There’ll be mirrors there for you to check your work before you step out.” Ariadne spoke with nervous urgency as she settled into one of the chairs beside the bed. “You only have until the end of the opening credits to build your forges.”

“We know.” Arthur nodded, and looked at Eames. They’d practiced not only building the forges, but doing it at speed. By now, Arthur was confident he could build a flawless Bert in twelve seconds. Eames had Ernie down in three. Which was why he was the best forger in the business.

Eames was already wired in and reclining in his chair. He gave Arthur a silent nod—he was ready if they were. Arthur reached for the button, waited for two seconds for someone—anyone—to change their mind. No one spoke, no one even breathed. He pushed the button.

The sweet, familiar Somnacin fog enveloped him, and Arthur could _feel_ Ariadne skillfully building the level around them as she had through their numerous practice runs. Though she was the architect of this dream, she would remain hidden, since trying to hold a forge—even a forge of one of the human characters—would be too challenging while also maintaining the setting. This was more involved than simply building a location for James’ subconscious to populate—she was responsible for music cues, lighting changes, and orchestrating the changes in skits.

God, the skits. It had taken them hours to figure out how they were going to handle the show’s short, episodic format without Arthur and Eames needing to forge into a dozen muppets to act out a dozen sketches. As much as they all hoped that they’d be able to accomplish the mission within the first sketch, there was a possibility that it would take multiple attempts had to even lure James out. So, after a bit of research online, they’d finally found a series of _Sesame Street_ skits that centered on the theme of “home,” and Ariadne had dutifully watched them over and over until she had them memorized. She would play them for James like a television program, banking on his own memory to fill in any details she may have missed. Eames and Arthur would hide “off-camera,” waiting until they were back on again. It really was going to be like being on a sketch television show.

The show’s theme music started: the jazzier, updated variation on the theme rather than the one that Arthur remembered from his own childhood. He opened his eyes and found himself standing smack-dab in the middle of Sesame Street once again. A deep shiver ran from his scalp to his toes, like it had each time he’d stepped onto this set in practice. It was no less surreal each time he did it. He’d grown up watching this street through his television, imagining himself as one of the children visiting with the furry friends.

No time for nostalgia. He only had a few seconds to build his forge. He used the broken mirror that Ariadne had surreptitiously placed in Oscar the Grouch’s trash pile to make sure he had the details right. It was almost easier to build this cartoonish puppet than an actual person, though it was crucial to get the details perfect: the right spheroid shape of the head with the tuft of black hair on top, the height of the orange, oval-shaped nose, the spacing of the round eyes. A ribbed turtleneck with the vertical-striped sweater on top. Finally, the last detail—a small brown paper bag stuffed with plastic groceries. By the time the last “can you tell me how to get to Sesame Street” was sung on the soundtrack, Arthur had completely transformed himself into the Bert muppet.

The ambient musical tones that set the stage for each opening to Sesame Street began, cueing the start of the “episode.” He could see Eames on the other side of the set as he stepped out of Hooper’s store, short and orange and indistinguishable from the Ernie on the show. It was important for both of them to be visible to James from the get-go, lest his subconscious create duplicates of Ernie and Bert. James’ mind was already filling the street with other characters—children, adults, and muppets. Arthur recognized some of the characters already. God, it was so fucking eerie to be standing within arm’s reach of Maria, Grover, and Telly Monster. They only had a few seconds before James’ mind would begin to fill in the scenario with his own plot. It was show-time.

“Hi there! Welcome to Sesame Street!” Arthur called out, making his voice as nasally as Bert’s, pretending to be addressing a camera. He furrowed his fuzzy black eyebrows in distress, and patted the pockets of his pants with his free hand. “Looks like you arrived just in time, too. I seem to have lost the keys to my apartment! And I need to get inside before the ice cream I bought at the store melts.”

Ernie-Eames waddled over, just as they had rehearsed. “Hey, old buddy Bert! What seems to be the matter?”

“Oh, hey Ernie. Boy am I glad you’re here!” Bert-Arthur sighed in relief. “I lost the keys to the apartment, and now we can’t get home.” Emphasis on home. The word on the street. “But now that you’re here, we can get in. Now hurry up Ernie, and give me the key to our home.”

“Oh, I don’t have it, Bert.” Ernie shrugged.

“You don’t have your key? Ernie, quit playing around! This ice cream is going to melt unless we hurry and get it home.”

“I don’t have it on me, Bert. See, I know how important it is, so I keep it in a very safe place.”

“Well…do you know where it is?”

“I sure do, Bert!” Ernie-Eames said in a maddeningly cheerful tone.

“So go get it, Ernie!”

“Oh, I can’t now, Bert.”

“And why not, Ernie?” Bert-Arthur could barely contain his annoyance.

“Because the safe place is inside the apartment!” Ernie-Eames let out his trademark snicker, and Bert-Arthur groaned in frustration.

“Well, how are we going to get home then? We need someone to help us!” He looked around the street. Arthur didn’t see James yet. Nervousness gnawed at his stomach. What if James was too far gone to even present a projection of himself on the dream set? Or maybe he was just sort of stuck in voyeur mode, and needed a little nudge. “Someone smart, and brave…someone like _you_.” Bert-Arthur turned towards the “camera,” the fourth wall, into James’ subconscious. “How about you? Can you help us?”

He didn’t call James by name—television shows never did that. It would immediately tip James off that something wasn’t quite right. However, if this didn’t work they’d have to wrap up this sketch by having Bert find his keys after all, and have Ariadne show a segment. Then Bert and Ernie would have a second sketch—a game of hide-and-go-seek to actively look for James. If that sketch didn’t work…

“Will nobody help us get home before the delicious ice cream melts?” Ernie-Eames called out. “Ooooh Bert, I’m so sad, thinking about the ruined ice cream—”

“Maybe…maybe I can help!” James materialized suddenly on set. Arthur’s heart lurched. Now, this was the James that he remembered from his visits: a lively little boy with rosy cheeks and tousled blond hair. This James looked nothing like the fragile child laying in the bed in the waking world above, so quiet, so still. This James was still a bit hesitant—as is to be expected when one comes face-to-face with a beloved celebrity—but he came up to them with a shy smile. “Hi, Bert! Hi, Ernie!”

“Hey there, James!” Ernie-Eames said as he joined them. “Boy are we glad to see you! Do you know where Bert’s key is? We need to find the key to get home before all this delicious ice cream melts.”

“No,” James said quietly, looking embarrassed. Arthur inwardly sighed. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. That was OK. They had a plan in place for this.

“That’s okay, James. Can you help us look for it?” Bert-Arthur asked.

James perked up. “Sure! I’m good at looking for things!”

The next ten minutes they poked around the Sesame Street, finding the hidden keys Ariadne had placed for them. One was too big, one was too small, one was the wrong color, and so on and so on. Each time they found the wrong key, Bert-Arthur’s exasperation would grow (but not so much as to upset James), and Ernie-Eames would find some silly use for the key. Without even meaning to, Arthur realized he was actually having fun with this, enjoying James’ childish enthusiasm, drinking in his bubbly laughter. God, when was the last time he’d made a kid giggle like that?

Finally, finally, it was time for the defining moment. Eames-Ernie gave Arthur a slight nod. Arthur nodded back.

“Oh Ernie and James, we’ve looked absolutely everywhere for the key to get home!” Bert-Arthur sighed sadly. “I think…I think we just have to accept the fact that the ice cream is all going to melt, and we’ll never get—”

“Hey…hey James,” Ernie-Eames piped up. “What’s that on that string around your neck?”

There had been no string before, but Eames’ suggestion planted the idea so quickly that when James’ hand flew up to his throat it encountered a thick, red loop of yarn. His eyes widened.

“Why, it’s the key!” Arthur-Bert cried out happily, filling in the rest of the scenario for James. “You’ve had the key all along, James!”

James’ fingers followed the makeshift necklace down until they encountered a small, silver key. It wasn’t ornate at all, just a simple house key, and Arthur would’ve bet money that it was the same as the one that Dom used to get into their new home.

“Hooray!” Ernie-Eames cheered. “Now we can all go home and eat ice cream! Doesn’t that sound nice, James? Wouldn’t it be great to go home?”

“No,” James whispered.

Shock radiated through Arthur. Maybe…maybe James had misinterpreted?

“You can have ice cream with us first,” Bert-Arthur reassured James. “But then, afterwards, don’t you think it’d be nice to go back home to your family?”

“No,” James repeated. He looked down at his feet. “I don’t want to go home.”

OK. Maybe this was just a reaction to the location. Really, what four-year-old would voluntarily leave Sesame Street once they’d finally found their way there?

“I know it can be hard to leave, little buddy,” Ernie-Eames chimed in, patting James’ arm. “But it’s getting late.” As if on cue, the lights on the set began to dim and take on a rosy hue, simulating sunset. Man, Ariadne was good. “I’m sure your Dad is getting worried.”

“He doesn’t care that I’m here.” James kicked at a painted-on crack in the sidewalk. “He never cares where I am.”

Arthur felt his fuzzy black unibrow lift in surprise. If he knew Cobb, he knew he had been hyper-attentive to his children since his return. Sure, he had to work to make a living now, but he spent every free second with James and Phillipa.

“Oh, James, that’s not true,” Arthur said. “Your father loves you very much, and he misses—”

“No he doesn’t!” James shouted, his little hands balling into fists. “He left and Mommy left and he didn’t come back for years and years and Mommy still hasn’t come home! I don’t want to go home until Mommy’s back.”

Shit. Oh man. This…they hadn’t expected this.

“I want to stay here, with you and Ernie. I want to stay on Sesame Street!” Angry tears were welling in his blue-grey eyes. Mal’s eyes. “You’re always here. Everyone’s always here!”

James had him there. That was the beauty of stories, of television shows—the characters were always there when you needed them. Especially on _Sesame Street_ , where the muppets never aged and the actors could remain for generations. Arthur struggled to build a compelling argument.

“Well, James…um, you see….”

“Daddy’s not leaving again, James.”

Dom’s deep voice snapped Arthur’s attention away from James’ tearful little face, and he looked up to see Dom standing behind James. Arthur’s gut clenched even tighter as their plan went even further awry. Goddamn Dom for following them, even when they’d all agreed it was a horrible idea. How had Yusuf not stopped—wait. Where had Ernie gone?

Dom’s gaze flickered up to Arthur’s for a second, grey-blue and familiar for a split second before brightening into Dom’s crystalline green-blue hue. Arthur immediately understood. Eames had forged Dom. Arthur’s stomach knotted even tighter. Fuck. They were completely off the rails now, and Arthur had no idea what Eames was planning. Neither did Eames, by the expression on his face. It was up to him, and him alone now.

_Please, God, Eames…don’t fuck this up._

 

**************

“Daddy?” James turned around to face Eames, his little face showing equal parts hope and suspicion. The kid was sharp. Most kids were. They could tell when someone was lying, when someone was genuine.

Eames was genuinely not his father, even if he looked just like him. Eames had first practiced forging Cobb back during one of their first jobs together—a situation where they were extracting from a…mutual acquaintance who knew better than to let Cobb out of his sight ever. So, Eames-as-Cobb had remained at the subject’s side the entire dream, so that actual Cobb—the master extractor—could do his business in the backfield. Eames had never expected to have to use this forge again on an actual job, especially not with Cobb’s own four-year-old son. This was going to take every bit of finesse that Eames possessed to pull off.

“Yeah, tiger, I’m here.” He used the nickname he’d just overheard Cobb use for James in the hospital. Eames knelt down on one knee to bring himself down to James’ level. He didn’t open his arms for a hug, though, not yet. He simply extended a hand, palm up. “I’m here to take you back home.”

“Why?” James asked accusingly. He looked at Eames’ hand, then up to his face. He was studying him, hard, as if trying to find the flaws. Eames noticed that the street had gone completely still, that every projection was looking at him. God, if he thought it was creepy being stared at so openly by people-shaped projections, it was doubly creepy being stared at by puppets. “You’re just going to leave again. Go back to work.”

“I…I have to go to work, James, you know that,” Eames said carefully. Cobb worked in an office now—marketing,  Arthur had said?—as far away from dream share as he could get. “But I come home every night, now, to you and Phillipa, and I always will.”

“You won’t. Someday you won’t. Philly says so.” James crossed his arms. “You’ll just disappear again.”

“Well, Philly’s not always right, is she?” Eames racked his brains, desperately wishing he’d done more research into Cobb’s domestic life.

“Yeah, James. Remember how she tricked you into drinking mud by telling you it was chocolate milk?” Bert-Arthur chimed in, his tone careful. God bless him.

“I guess,” James admitted reluctantly, but he wasn’t convinced.

“I…I know it’s hard to believe, James…and I’m sorry, so, so sorry I had to leave the first time. I didn’t want to. But I promise you, James, I won’t be going away like that ever again.”

_As long as we don’t get caught in James’ hospital room by security…_

“What about Mommy?” James asked, his voice tiny. “Is she coming home, too?”

God. The poor, poor kid. He’d been through so much loss, so much pain. He knew Cobb had talked to his children about their mother’s death—not the cause, of course, but the effect. But he hadn’t been there to guide them through the thick of their grief. No. They had dealt with that alone.

_And you know a thing or two about mourning alone, now don’t you, Eames?_

Eames’ heart twisted, and he swallowed hard. “No, James. Mommy’s…Mommy’s not coming back. I’m sorry.”

“Then I don’t want to go home,” James whispered. He took a step away. “You can’t make me.”

James’ small face began to crumble, and the ground began to quiver under Eames. He was losing him. It was time for the craziest tactic yet. No more games, no more songs, no more lies. It was time for the truth.

“I want to go with Mommy,” James whimpered. “I miss her.”

“I miss her, too,” Eames said softly. “But you still have me and Phillipa, and we love you very, _very_ much. Think…think of how sad she’d be if she lost you, too. Her favorite little brother.”

“I’m her _only_ brother,” James scoffed. Even through his annoyance, Eames saw the hint of realization blooming in his eyes. He took an unconscious step closer to Eames, even as the dream level’s shaking continued to intensify. Eames resisted the urge to grab the boy. It was crucial that James come to him of his own free will, but judging by the rate at which the level was destabilizing, Eames only had only seconds left before James realized fully that he was dreaming, and collapsed the level.

Eames took a deep, shuddering breath. He had to convince the boy of his sincerity, of his father’s love. If Eames was going to be honest, he was going to have to do what he’d been fighting for days, since he’d seen James lying in that hospital bed for the first time…

He finally opened the vault inside himself where he kept those terrible days, weeks, months hidden. Where he’d locked away his grief and fury. Where he’d locked away Ronan—both the dream of the son that had never been and the reality of the frail infant that had been too fragile for this world. Eames opened himself up and let the flood take him.

“Please, James. I need you to come home with me. I…I miss you so much. Every day I think of you, and I think…I think…what a lucky dad I am, to have such a…a wonderful son. Someone so smart, so strong, so…so _good_. Someone to read to, to…to play cars with…” Eames’ throat was closing up, his eyes felt hot, but he forced himself to keep talking. “You’re my tiger. Who else am I going to take to the matc—the games? Who am I going to play catch with?”

“Philly plays softball—” James interrupted quietly.

“Then who’s going to bat when she pitches? She needs you too, James! We both do. You’re…you’re our family, and…and we belong together. I would give anything— _anything_ , to have one more day with you, son. To see you grow up…to see you become the amazing boy you’re already becoming. Please. Please, stay. With me. I can’t lose you, too.”

_Stay with me, Ronan._

The world was blurry and shaking, and Eames didn’t know if it was him or the dream collapsing. All he knew was the ache in his chest, the raw, scraped emptiness he’d hidden away for so very, very long…

James’ tiny hand came to rest on his. The sets around them began to crumble, and Eames instinctively pulled the boy into a protective embrace, shielding his head against the falling debris. James’ thin arms wrapped around Eames’ neck, and the last bits of reservation Eames felt melted away as he crushed James to his chest.

“We’re going home,” Eames whispered against James’ wispy blonde hair. “Just hold on tight and we’ll be—”

A massive roar. A sickening lurch. The feeling of falling backwards into nothingness—

And they were out.

The first thing Eames registered when he opened his eyes was the emptiness in his arms. There was no small boy in his embrace, no gangly arms around his neck. Just a wide-open maw in his chest, sucking the very air, the very life from him, and he knew the very next breath he’d draw was going to be a sob—

“Hey, hey, you’re all right.” Arthur was there, right there, filling Eames’ field of vision with his gorgeous face. He palmed Eames’ cheek, and only then did Eames feel the wetness there as Arthur’s fingers slid across, hastily wiping his tears away. Eames realized that he was doing it as much to comfort him as to hide the tears.

“Did it work?” Eames rasped. He barely trusted himself to speak, but he had to know, had the gamble been worth it?

“Yes,” Arthur said, smiling gently. “Yes, it did. He’s awake.”

Eames listened to the whir and whisper of the medical machines, but through the mechanical sound was a new murmur, like the sound of a father’s grateful prayer whispered against a small child’s hair…

Eames’ grip on his composure began to slip, and rapidly. He couldn’t…he couldn’t watch, he couldn’t handle Cobb’s joy, his relief…he had no idea what it had cost Eames, what ghosts Eames had summoned into being. He wanted to flee the room, find a dark corner, lose himself anew in his grief and bitterness and black memories. _Ronan, I’m so sorry…I couldn’t save you…I couldn’t make you stay…_

“Look at me,” Arthur said quietly, holding Eames’ face steady. “Just look right at me, love. I’m right here.”

Eames nodded, even as he was biting his lip so hard he could taste blood. Arthur. Real, solid, warm, now. He forced himself to take a deep breath, and another, and another. He forced himself to feel the hard chair under his legs, smell the chemical tang of the room. Bit by bit, he put himself back together, enough so that Arthur could loosen his grip, so Eames could sit up straighter. He couldn’t look at the bed, though. Couldn’t look at Cobb, at James.

“I have to go,” Eames whispered hoarsely as he stood up. The room felt too small, too full of people, too full of emotions.

“Sure,” Arthur nodded, stepping back to give Eames room to maneuver out. Eames didn’t miss how Arthur tried to stand between Eames and the bed, attempting to shield him from the reunion scene they’d help to create. It was a sweet gesture, though fruitless. The tiny space was saturated with it.

Eames didn’t look at anyone as he slid past the curtain, though he felt Ariadne’s slim fingers brush his arm and Yusuf’s hand clap briefly on his shoulder as he passed them. Eames kept his head down. He didn’t know if the gestures were meant to be congratulatory or consoling. He didn’t want kudos or pity right now, though. He just wanted to be alone.

He made it to the elevator before he realized that Arthur was on his heels.

“You don’t have to leave, too,” Eames muttered as he stepped aside to let the passengers disembark. He stepped on to the empty car. Arthur followed him. “I’ll…I’ll be all right.” _Once I’m by myself again, away from all these eyes, this hospital smell of cleaning chemicals and broken dreams…_

“I’m not letting you do this alone.” Arthur shook his head as the elevator door slid shut. He met Eames’ eyes with a level gaze, then held up his left hand to show the golden band on his ring finger. “That’s what these are all about, aren’t they?”

Eames swallowed hard, his eyes stinging anew. There Arthur went, giving his words right back to him. If Eames hadn’t been so fragile right now, he might have laughed, teased Arthur about coming up with his own material. Instead, he only nodded, not trusting his voice to speak.

Arthur wrapped his arms around Eames, tight and sure. Eames’ body surrendered before his mind did, molding itself gratefully against Arthur’s lean form. He soaked up the strength, the comfort Arthur offered, the quiet understanding in the way his hands rubbed Eames’ spine. Eames clung back, burying his face in his husband’s neck, letting his familiar scent ground him in the here and now.

Even when the elevator chimed, announcing their arrival at the lobby, Eames didn’t let go.

 

**************

Arthur got them a hotel room for the night. He figured it would just be easier for Eames. He’d gone through enough today without having to face the artifacts of a small boy’s childhood…a childhood that Eames had helped give back to him.

They didn’t talk about what had happened in James’ dream, what Eames had said. They didn’t have to. Arthur had seen it all, standing mutely aside in his then-useless Bert form. It was clear to Arthur what Eames had done: said to James what he’d never had the chance to say to his own son. It had been risky, all of it, and under normal circumstances Arthur would’ve been livid at Eames for taking such a risk.

But these were anything but normal circumstances.

Eames slept for nearly two days, waking only when Arthur insisted he eat something from the room service he kept ordering. Even then, Eames ate meagerly, only to placate Arthur—a few spoonfuls of soup, half of a sandwich, a few sips of tomato juice. Then he’d crawl back in bed and close his eyes.

Arthur let him. He knew what Eames was doing—he was in mourning all over again.

Sometimes, Arthur would curl himself around his husband, drape a protective arm over him and join him in sleep. When he was too awake, he’d just sit beside him in the bed and read, or work on his laptop, and stroke Eames’ back whenever he whimpered in his sleep. He checked in with Dom and Ariadne and Yusuf via text. James would hopefully be home in a few days. Yusuf had a flight back to Mombasa at the end of the week—he wanted to see Universal Studios first. Ariadne would be leaving later…sometime. She wanted to stick around in case Dom needed help.

The morning of the third day, Arthur awoke to the sound of the shower running at five a.m. Eames’ spot on the bed was empty. Arthur’s heart lurched in concern as he pulled himself out from under the warm covers and padded to the bathroom. He had no idea how he’d find Eames.  He’d never seen him this quiet, this withdrawn, and he half-expected to find him sitting in the bathtub, letting cold water pelt his back…

A wall of warm steam hit Arthur in the face as he opened the bathroom door. It took a moment for him to make out through the fog and the frosted glass shower doors that Eames was indeed standing upright…and was he humming to himself?

“Hey,” Arthur called out cautiously.

Eames’ humming stopped, and he slid open the shower door enough to poke his head through. His eyes were clear as he cocked his head in concern. “I’m sorry, love, did I wake you?”

“No, I just…when you weren’t in bed, I was…” _worried._ Arthur wondered if this was a strange dream he was having, Eames looking just as normal as ever. Maybe he should start carrying his die in his pajama pants, too.

“I’m all right now. Really,” Eames said softly. He looked embarrassed, and he ducked his head back into the shower. He didn’t slide the glass door all the way closed, though, and Arthur took it as an invitation.

Arthur shed his own clothes and let them drop to the tiled floor. He stepped into the shower behind Eames, wincing as the hot water stung his sleep-softened skin. Eames always liked the water hotter than Arthur did. He didn’t change it though.

He didn’t start touching Eames, either, not in the way a shower invitation usually warranted. Instead, he just pressed his chest against Eames’ back, and wrapped his arms around Eames’ from behind, relieved to find him upright again. Eames twined his fingers in Arthur’s in silent assurance, and Arthur smiled to feel his wedding ring clink gently against Eames’.

They stood together like that for a long, long time, until the drumming water began to feel cooler on Arthur’s back. He was either becoming desensitized to the heat or they were starting to run out of hot water. Either way, Arthur wasn’t letting go until Eames wanted him to.

Finally, Eames spoke, and his voice was so quiet that Arthur had to strain to hear him over the water.

“What would you say if I told you that…that I think I want us to start a family?”

Arthur’s heart stopped beating for a few seconds. A family? With Eames?

“I know…I know we haven’t discussed it before,” Eames continued slowly, “and I’ll be the first to admit that my judgment may be a tad clouded right now. I just…seeing James…” He trailed off, lost.

Arthur knew better. It hadn’t been _seeing_ James, it had been speaking to him. Eames admitting to his loss, his grief…the longing for something he’d lost before he’d ever truly had it.

Arthur couldn’t take it anymore. He gripped Eames’ shoulders and turned him around so he could see his expression. Eames’s brow was furrowed, his gaze downcast, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. It surprised Arthur. Eames was never visibly nervous about Arthur’s reactions, and had always seemed so sure of every step of their path. Of course they’d admit their love to each other while on one of the most dangerous jobs of their career. Of course Eames would abandon his anonymous life in Mombasa to commit to homeownership in New York with Arthur.  Of course Arthur would accept Eames’ marriage proposal, and even his suggestion that they make a courthouse appointment the very next day. So, to see how unsure Eames was about Arthur’s reaction to this question told him just how deep, just how raw this desire was for Eames.

But…what about for Arthur? He liked kids—loved them, even—but he’d never really considered having any himself. Back when he was first forming his identity as a gay man, the idea of a legal marriage for him wasn’t even a possibility. Times had changed, thankfully, but by then Arthur had ensconced himself in a life and career that were definitely not conducive to family life. Just ask Dom.

More than times had changed, though. Arthur had changed. He was getting older, less in love with the thrill of danger, the challenge of the extraction…and more and more with Eames and the life they were building together. They’d turned down the last two jobs that had come their way, and it wasn’t just the fat cushion of savings in their bank accounts courtesy of the Fischer job payout. Maybe…maybe this was just the order of things for them—get married, settle down…have a family. The idea wasn’t as off-putting as it would’ve been even a year ago. In fact, it actually felt like it had potential.

“I understand if the answer is no,” Eames said quickly, already backpedaling in the wake of Arthur’s silence. “It’s definitely one of those things you should discuss _before_ you get married, and I’m not willing to lose you to—”

“I’d say I’m definitely open to discussing it,” Arthur said with quiet sincerity. He waited to hear himself add a caveat: _“but we need to think this through.” “but I need some time to get used to the idea.” “but is this what you really want, Eames?”_ Nothing else came.

“Yeah?” Eames asked quietly, and Arthur didn’t miss the notes of surprise edging the single word.

“Yeah,” Arthur said, with an assurance he still didn’t completely feel. “We’d have to find new work, though.”

Eames’ grin was brighter than the sun. ““What, you don’t want to drag the kids around the globe, teach them the family trade?”

“Not with the cost of airfare these days, no.” Arthur grinned back, even as a shiver of certainty ran through him.

Eames crushed him against his chest. Arthur felt more than heard Eames’ “thank you” against his shoulder, and he pressed a kiss to Eames’ throat in response.

_Wow. We’re…we’re going to have a family together. Me and Eames._

“You know what it would mean, though?” Arthur said against Eames’ neck.

“What?” Eames pulled away, his expression serious again, worried.

Arthur forced his face straight. “We’re going to be in for a lot more _Sesame Street_. Years of it.”

“Deal’s off,” Eames said, his expression stern. His eyes, though, were shining with humor. “I don’t think I could take a single more episode of that nonsense.”

“Hmmm. Maybe we’ll just stick to Mr. Rogers, then.”

 

**************

Cobb insisted on treating everyone to dinner before they all scattered their separate ways again. It was the least he could do, he said, after everything that they’d done for him and his family.

Eames was half surprised that Cobb had come out without his kids, after everything that had happened. But James was home safe, under the care of his loving grandparents and his big sister, and Cobb looked like he could use the night off.

They all could.

It was somewhat surreal, sitting out in the open with this motley little crew—laughing and sharing wine and stories like they were all just normal co-workers. Just to look at them, no one would guess that they were a band of international mind-thieves, criminals…

No. Not anymore they weren’t. Especially if Eames was serious about starting a family with Arthur, then he was going to have to go straight now. Find a real job, start setting up boring things like life insurance and college savings accounts…

He couldn’t wait.

Cobb stood up with a wine glass in his hand, and Eames inwardly groaned. They’d already gone through two bottles, so Cobb was sure to start spouting about what a great team they were, and how grateful he was that they’d come—

“So, I guess, I was the last one to find out.” Cobb shook his head in mock irritation and sighed. “You two. Arthur. Eames. _Married_.”

Eames looked up in shock, then looked at Arthur. Arthur’s eyebrows were raised halfway up his forehead. So, he hadn’t been expecting this either, nor did he have any idea what Cobb was going to say. Oh, this was going to be interesting.

Cobb continued. “I’ve known Arthur since we were roommates in college.” He looked right at Arthur, a small, sentimental smile twisting his lips. “It feels like I’ve known you my whole life sometimes. You’re the brother I never had, the one person who’s always had my back, no matter what. Even now, after…after everything we’ve gone through, you still had my back when I needed you…when other people would’ve walked away.”

Cobb’s gaze shifted to Eames, and a hard knot began to form in Eames’ stomach. What was Cobb doing? Was he really that drunk, that he was pretending at a wedding speech so he could insult Eames once again? It really wouldn’t surprise him—

“I can’t tell you how many years I’ve worked with Eames. Really, I can’t remember when I met him. But what I can tell you is in our first meeting, I thought to myself, ‘now this here is a sharp, cold son-of-a-gun. Doesn’t care about anyone or anything except getting the job done.’ And I wasn’t completely wrong. If you want something done, even the hardest job imaginable, Eames will see it through. We saw that again this week.” Cobb looked down, and swallowed hard, before looking back up to meet Eames’ eyes. “But I was wrong about the other things. About you. I know—I know how much you care. Especially about Arthur. And really…you’re the best thing that ever happened to him, and I’m...I’m honored to call you my friend.”

Eames’ throat was surprisingly tight. He’d been right—Cobb was being a drunken sap. Eames didn’t mind. He just nodded, and gave Dom a small smile. _Friend._ Arthur’s hand slid into Eames’, and Eames could practically feel the relief radiating from his body. Eames squeezed Arthur’s hand back.

“I wish you both a lifetime of happiness together,” Cobb concluded. “Marriage isn’t easy, but if anyone can handle it, it’s you two. You guys can handle anything, and I love you both.”

They all clinked glasses before Dom could embarrass himself even further, but Eames’ face felt surprisingly warm, and not just from the wine. He’d never expected a wedding speech, especially not from Dom. It had been lovely. Not that he’d ever admit that to Dom.

Eames was in such a good mood he half-considered sharing his and Arthur’s decision right then and there, but he swallowed down the urge with another sip of wine. It was too soon, too fresh. It wasn’t that he was afraid of jinxing it, per se, he just…just wasn’t ready yet. Arthur sure as hell wasn’t ready. Eames had practically felt him go pale against his back when he’d asked the question, which was why he had been so surprised that Arthur had said “yes” right off the bat. Well, that he was open to discussing it, but that was as good as a “yes” for Arthur. He never had any trouble saying “no.”

God, were…were they really going to start a family? Eames hadn’t even realized it was something he still wanted until this odd job. He supposed he had Dom to thank for that. Or rather…James. Without this, he might never have had the courage to face the memories, to sift through the debris of his grief to find the bright kernel of truth.

Fuck. He was drunk, too, wasn’t he? Getting all poetic about this.

There was going to be a lot of decisions to make. He didn’t even know a quarter of the questions they had to ask, let alone the answers, but if he and Arthur could plan and orchestrate complicated heists, sure as hell they could navigate the bureaucracy involved with starting a family.

Arthur laughed at something Yusuf said, bringing Eames back to their cozy little circle. His heart warmed as he drank in Arthur’s smile, and a strange thought rose from the back of Eames’ mind—that all the pain and loss that Eames had suffered, the years he’d spent fighting and stealing and building up walls...all of it had led him to Arthur.

He couldn’t look too closely at that equation or he’d go mad, weighing the joys and sorrows against each other. Was Arthur’s love worth the loss of Ronan? Given the choice, would Eames give up Arthur to have Ronan back?

These weren’t questions that were worth asking. They could never be answered.

All there was, was this moment—Arthur’s hand in his, his laughter in his ears, his smile in his heart.

Eames’ life was entwined with Arthur’s now, and with him, anything was possible.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I began writing this in Sept. 2015, after all the _Sesame Street_ I'd been watching made me see the parallels between Ernie  & Bert and Eames & Arthur. I'd originally indented this story to be just a fun little crack fic...but my brain obviously had other plans. In early 2016 writing this fic became a form of catharsis as I processed a personal loss of my own, and I put it down for a while afterwards. I'm glad I picked it up again. It's been remarkably healing finishing this story, finally. Thank you for reading!


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